Order Me Something Strong
by division-ten
Summary: Gamora wants to know what it's like to get drunk; she'd been made with a liver filtration system that prevented this sort of weakness. Rocket's happy to oblige.


_**For Growliere. Prompt request: Gamora and Rocket get drunk together.**_

* * *

"Order me something strong, but sweet. Not frozen." Gamora nervously rapped her fingers against the edge of the table, as she whispered the request to Rocket, while the waiter was furiously writing down Peter's obnoxiously complicated dinner order.

"Yeah, can I have, ah, y'know I'll take the special. And a White Whistle, neat." Gamora elbowed him gently in the ribs. "_**Please**_."

"Sorry to ask, but company policy…" the waiter started.

Rocket groaned. "Here's my ID. Yeah, yeah, I'm fifteen, but a legal adult for my species, marked right here," he said, flashing his faded Xandarian bounty hunter's permit.

"That's going to expire in two weeks, you know," the waiter said, giving it a glance. "Also, gotta say, you take a way better ID photo than I do. I look like I've just murdered someone in mine." Rocket snorted, trying his hardest to hide a laugh. He _**had**_ just murdered someone when he'd gone to get the ID updated the last time. Granted, he was being paid by Nova to do so, but still.

"They're sending me one'a those new digital ones," Rocket replied, as he slid the peeling laminated card back in his pocket.

"Oh yeah, some people have been showing them off. Been throwing the bouncer for a loop, tell you what. Anyway, what can I get you?" Rocket titled the menu on a diagonal, pointing to a cocktail.

"Special for me too, no sauce though. And a… Hyperion."

"How about I make things fair and ask for your ID, too?" the waiter joked, as Gmaora handed him her menu. She flicked up a temporary military ID issued by the Nova Corps. "Well, I'll be, thank you for your service ma'am. You get a ten percent discount, too."

Suddenly, four more ID's were pulled from wallets, pockets, and Groot, who conveniently doubled as his own storage. "Shoulda known. You Corps guys tend to stick together, dontcha'? I'll be back with those drinks." The waiter turned tail, in quite literal fashion, his scales glinting under the wax-ball lamps.

"You are going to imbibe tonight, friend assassin?" Drax inquired. I thought your augmentations prevented you from becoming intoxicated."

"I had Rocket turn my liver processor off the last time he ran a tune up on my systems," she said, quietly, reaching for the basket of rolls. "Or, well, install a switch. I'd like to not become poisoned, thank you."

"Well, just… I don't know, pace yourself," Peter said. "I can't believe I'm asking you to be responsible, but, yeah."

"Like you do?" Gamora replied, with a side eye so sharp it could pierce most objects.

"Hey, I also installed a breathalyzer on the autopilot override, and I have yet to _**drunk-dial a madman**_ or _**tried to shoot my crew **_while intoxicated."

"You did make out with me after eating garlic, though, bleugh," Rocket interjected, snatching the rolls from Gamora and shoving one in his mouth as if to burn off the taste. "Seriously, man. _**Breath mints**_. They was invented for a reason."

* * *

The dinner was delicious (and cheap, which was always a bonus). Peter didn't touch his ale, sliding it down to Gamora as the night wore on. _**Someone**_ needed to be sober, and Peter wanted to be cognizant enough to blackmail Gamora or at least take some decent photographs. Groot certainly could be the responsible one, he usually was, but Peter wanted to be able to egg Gamora as the night wore on, and he was more familiar with the signs of dehydration or alcohol poisoning if something did go sour.

_**Peter**_ and _**responsible**_ in the same sentence, one that didn't include 'not'. That was new.

And in all honestly, the entertainment was worth it.

"You're so fluuuuuuuuuuuffy! Rocket, lemme huuuuuug you," Gamora whined, reaching out to Rocket back in the common area of the Milano. Groot was holding up a data pad while Rocket, Gamora, and Drax were playing some complicated Kree card game Peter didn't know the rules to. It didn't matter. He was having fun watching, and keeping a close eye on the ever increasing pile of empty glass bottles littering the floor.

Rocket whined, "C'mon, bother Peter. He's a better kisser anyway."

"Nooooooo. Lemme pet you," Gamora whined, flopping on her back, cards and hair flying up in a cloud around her as she hit the deck.

_**Uh-oh.**_ Things might get ug-

"Fiiiiiiiiiiine," came Rocket's defeated whine, and he scurried up Gamora's side, laying on her stomach with his head between Gamora's cleavage. "Mph. Warm pillow. I'mma sleep now," he added, before conking out right on Gamora. Drax had begun snoring on the floor as well.

"Groot," Peter whispered. "Can you haul Drax off to bed for me?"

"I am Groot," Groot replied, putting down the data pad and carefully lifting Drax off the metal grating. Gamora, meanwhile, was burying her face in Rocket's fur, and petting him like a cat. Rocket began purring; Groot just cracked a knowing smile as he hauled Drax back to his quarters, returning quickly to lift up both Gamora and Rocket as a unit, Gamora sleepily petting Rocket as Rocket purred and drooled on Gamora.

Peter picked up the small mound of discarded bottles and cards, packing the cards back into their cube and dropping the glass into the recycler to be crushed into discs for Rocket's machinations. Groot quickly rejoined him, picking up the last of the strewn items, and handed Peter his pad, before waving a limb and ducking into his own cabin for the night.

It was left on the notepad application, with a message from Rocket dated from that morning.

_**Quill:**_

_**Since we did that mission on Ahena and have a bit of extra pocket money, I'm guessing we're getting drunk off our keisters tonight. A few days ago Gamora asked me to do some repairs, including a relay switch to turn off her inability to metabolize alcohol.**_

_**Course I did it, Not being able to get drunk is a terrible, terrible thing. But it's a two-stage switch so she doesn't get it turned off when her iron liver is actually needed for something. I told her it's off this morning.**_

_**Course it ain't. I'm not an idiot.**_

_**If she'd drunk tonight, it's just placebo.**_

_**Are you thinking blackmail? 'Cause I'm thinking blackmail. **_


End file.
